


sort of feels like i'm running out of time

by rememberingsunday



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: M/M, im sorry, lashton au omg, song fic for "why'd you only call me when you're high"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 00:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1798843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rememberingsunday/pseuds/rememberingsunday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And as I arrived I thought I saw you leaving, carrying your shoes. Decided that once again I was just dreaming of bumping into you.</p><p>(or the one where ashton is bad at saying what he feels and luke is tired)</p>
            </blockquote>





	sort of feels like i'm running out of time

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry omg really i am

Ashton’s just gotten home and he sighs, running a hand through his hair. The hallway is dim; it’s cluttered, too, coats and shoes that he’s pretty sure he’s never worn once in his life scattered around, a Vampire Weekend CD laying on the floor, rainwater from his shoes dripping onto the carpet.

And then there’s Luke, coming down the hallway. He’s wearing Ashton’s sweater, the red one he stole back when they had just started dating, and the sleeves fall over his hands. His blonde hair is flat on one side, as if he’s just woken up. He’s holding his Converse in his hands and Ashton remembers how he hated to dirty the floor. He smiles at Ashton, and suddenly everything’s okay, everything’s alright-

The day dream breaks as suddenly as it started. He’s back where he was; standing alone in the hallway, jacket damp, hair plastered against his forehead. There’s a mirror at the end of the hallway. There is no Luke next to him. There was no Luke, there will never _be_ any Luke. Because Ashton fucked it up, Ashton always fucks things up.

He groans to himself, slips off his jacket, hangs it up. It’s cold out and the rain is pounding on the window, the distant sound of sirens in the background. He shivers slightly and stumbles his way into the kitchen, flipping on the lights.

The kitchen is messy too, like always. A half-eaten piece of toast laying on the countertop, the sink has dirty dishes in it, the floor needs to be swept. Luke loved to clean; always insisted on it, before they could cuddle or have sex or whatever, he had to wash the dishes and clean up after dinner.

Ashton used to roll his eyes at it. Now he longs for the way Luke’s eyebrows furrowed as he scrubbed on the counter and he misses the way he swore softly when certain pans wouldn’t come clean and he misses the spaces between his fingers tips and the love caught in his eyes and he misses him.

**

He gets drunk off the shitty white wine in his fridge.

It tastes like Luke’s lips and at some point he cries, which is just, like, really pathetic but fuck it, all he can think about is LukeLukeLuke, Luke’s lips and Luke’s hair and Luke’s eyes and Luke’s skin and the way Luke said his name, the way Luke smiled, the way Luke laughed.

He’s saying Luke so much it’s starting to stop sounding like a word, so he stops, tries to focus on something else. Anything else.

He’s never going to be able to _not_ think about Luke, and it’s kind of like telling someone “don’t think about an elephant” because what do they think about then? An elephant. And Luke is his fucking elephant, god dammit.

Okay, maybe he’s had too much wine.

This is apparent when he picks up the phone and calls Luke, the number he’s memorized replaying in his head as he hits the green call button. The ringing sound fills his ears and he lets out a breath.

He gets the voicemail.

“Hey,” he says, closing his eyes tightly. His fists are clenched and he feels his nails break the skin. It stings but he doesn’t stop. “It’s me. Ashton.” He takes a deep breath, exhales. “Luke, fuck. Luke. I miss you. I can’t… do anything without you. You are missing from me.” He laughs, bitterly. “That was our term. ‘You are missing from me’. You are a part of me, like my blood, my veins, my heart. A vital organ. I cannot function without you.”

Ashton’s voice breaks, and his hand grips the phone. “I’m so sorry, Luke, I am so, so sorry. Please. Whatever I did, I am so sorry. I love you. Goodnight babe.”

He hangs up, and yells a swear word. “Fuck!” He shouts, punching the wall and gasping as it hurts his knuckles. “Fuck.”

And then there’s tears burning the back of his eyelids and he squeezes his eyes shut, falling back onto the pillow and praying for something to take him away from this, away from a world without Luke.

**

Luke listens to the messages. There’s always one every time Ashton gets drunk, or is out too late, or the sun shines too bright, or he goes somewhere they used to go.

If Luke’s ever learned something, it’s that Ashton is fragile. Ashton is like broken glass, already shattered but willing to be whole for whoever is willing to hold him together. And you can break that so very, very easily.

Luke broke Ashton. Ashton broke Luke back. They are shattering each other more so than anyone else, they are hitting each other emotionally over and over again, and fucking it out on Ashton’s bed, they are lying on Luke’s couch, with Ashton muttering against the skin of Luke’s neck, “I didn’t mean it, I never mean it,” and Luke nodding and telling he never means it either, never will.

Except maybe he kind of did, maybe they both kind of did.

Sometime around midnight, Luke’s out. His hood is pulled over his head, and he’s anxiously biting his lip ring, walking down the wet pavement, eyes scanning the street ahead.

He wonders if Ashton’s out tonight, if he’s at that old bar he loves so much, if maybe he’s flirting with someone right now, at this very moment.

Luke winces but then dismisses the thought. Ashton was a fucking dick a lot, but fuck, he loved Luke. Luke knows that. Ashton looked at him like he held the sun in his hands and Luke looked back just the same.

It’s hard sometimes, though. And life’s got a way of fucking everything up.

Because Ashton was terrified, _is_ terrified of emotion. He’s locking every shred of love up into his eyes, and it comes pouring out when they’re alone. He never, ever told Luke that he loved him. Ever.

Not until it was over, at least. Or when he was intoxicated, dictacted, removed of his inhibitions. Luke hates that the only way to get verbal affection was to get Ashton drunk, or high, or whatever.

Of course, there was sex. Luke blushes at the thought, kicks at a loose pebble on the street. God damn, was the sex amazing. Hasty, sometimes slow, always chock full of this smoldering, heated passion. Always Ashton whispering words that still make Luke squirm into his ear, cries of his name, the pure pleasure.

Sometimes, though, sex isn’t enough.

Sometimes, it just doesn’t work.

Life has a way of not working out.

Luke and Ashton are a perfect example.

**

Sometime around four am, Ashton is sobbing.

Like, full blown crying, like grasping the pillow and near shrieking. He fucking _misses Luke,_ misses Luke so much it’s like somebody set off a bomb inside of him, this horrible, horrible feeling of wondering what would have happened if he’d done it differently. Luke was his everything. Luke is his everything. Luke will always be his everything.

He rocks back and forth slightly, the pillow wet. It’s like falling. That’s what this was, an endless, endless free fall. Falling for Luke, falling for his smile, falling away, falling apart. That’s how this is, falling.

He’s breaking, under these sheets that soaked with moonlight and fuck, he feels explosive, like he might just die, right here, right now. He’d be okay with it, too.

The tortured silence is broken when the phone rings.

It’s Luke.

Ashton doesn’t even think, grabs the phone, frantically hits “accept.”

“Luke, oh my god, Luke-“

He’s interrupted by his voice and for one sweet, sweet second it’s okay. Ashton can breathe. There is no longer fire leaping from his skin, there is no endless pain in his stomach, his heart doesn’t feel like a shooting range. He’s alright.

Then the words register.

“Why’d you only call me you’re high?”

 


End file.
